The Trinity

by David LaBounty

Chris does try—after his tongue is set loose by a few pints—to make conversation. He asks Jane her age, as he can’t tell behind her makeup, which makes her look like something out of a science fiction movie.

  “Nineteen,” she says. Chris thinks at least they have that in common.

  “Why do you do what you do?” he asks.

  She shrugs her shoulders. “Why do you do what you do?”

  Brad, too, after the passage of time and alcohol, becomes verbally freer, but in an obnoxious sort of way. “Do you really fuck for a living?” he asks Margo, who sits as far from him as possible. She nods. “And Father paid you to do me?” She nods again.

  “Is he your father?” she asks. She receives no answer.

  “See, Chris? I told you he was all right!” Brad shouts over Margo’s head. Chris nods, embarrassed.

  There is more drinking and small talk and a few more crass remarks from Brad, but somehow he manages to swing the conversation towards Nebraska football, and he tells Margo, who understands nothing of it, the long and successful tradition of Cornhusker football.

  “I see me playing ball someday,” he says to Margo, meaning to impress. “After I go to school when I get out of the Navy, I can walk right on the team.”

  “That’s grand,” she says. She asks Brad for a cigarette, who in turn gets two from Chris.

  “Well, then,” says Jane, staring at the clock above the bar. Although Crowley has retained her for the night, she knows her presence won’t be necessary long after the ritual is performed. “Are you boys ready for bed?”

  “Hell, yes!” Brad slaps the bar.

  The bartender presents them with their tab.

  “I thought Father took care of it,” Brad says to Chris. “I ain’t got no money. Can I pay you back in the room?” Chris nods, wondering where Brad’s money goes.

  They walk up the red-carpeted stairs to the lone hallway that contains all the rooms of the George Hotel. Their rooms are adjoining. Sheepishly, Chris unlocks his door. Brad opens his in a rush.

  Chris finds the light switch. The appearance of the room is somewhat surprising. It is a stark contrast to the elegance of the establishment downstairs. The walls are plaster that has yellowed with age; hairline cracks are visible throughout, like so many spider webs. The lone light in the room is a bulb that hangs from a cord from the center of the ceiling, cracks fanning out from the fixture. There is a desk that appears to have been taken from a child’s room, wicker that could have once been white but is now stained with the exhaust of a thousand cigarettes.

  The bed, the focal point of the room, is against a wall. It is too small to be a full-sized bed, but wider than what Chris knows as a single bed. The mattress sags in the middle underneath a thick down bedspread.

  Jane deposits her purse, an oversized bag made out of something that could be moccasin leather, on the desk. Despite the glare of the unsheathed light, she undresses as casually as she would drink a morning cup of tea.

  Chris stands open-mouthed and afraid, a cigarette smoldering in his hand.

  She undresses down to her bra and panties, plain white things exposing a soft and fleshy stomach, large thighs pockmarked with cellulite that that fans out across her buttocks.

  This is not how he pictured this moment.

  She pulls down the sheets and looks at him. “Well, are ya just going to stand there and toss-off, or are ya getting into bed?”

  Shyly he unbuttons his white shirt, pulls off his gray jeans and sneakers, removes his glasses and places them on the desk. He climbs into the bed, unsure of how he is supposed to proceed. He thinks of movies and television programs where couples climb into bed. So he does what he’s seen: he starts to kiss her.

  She doesn’t return the affection. “You don’t have to do all that,” she says, pushing him away, giggling. “You just have to fuck me.”

  The vulgarity of that last sentence is like a cold shower on his already limp organ.

  He rests his head on the pillow and stares straight at the ceiling.

  After a moment, she grabs his penis and starts moving her hand up and down. He becomes semi-erect and decides that now is the time to proceed. He rolls on top of her, pulling down her panties awkwardly. He has trouble getting them down past her knees. She has to remove them herself. She guides him inside her, and it isn’t what he expects. He is unsure of the required motion, so unsure that he can’t keep himself inside her. He goes up and down and he pulls himself too far out, so far out that he can’t stay inside her. He goes limp, and he knows the exercise is pointless. She knows this, and takes advantage of the situation.

  “You all done?” she asks, feigning tenderness.

  “Yep, I’m done.” He turns his back towards her.

  “Well, I have to wait for Margo. Do you have a cigarette?”

  He leans over and retrieves his shirt from the floor, removing the cigarettes from his shirt pocket. He takes two and gives her one, lighting it for her. He realizes he has never done that before—lit a cigarette for a girl.

  They don’t have to wait long for Margo. They hear a loud pounding on the door.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here, Jane!” Margo shouts through the closed door. Jane rapidly stands up and opens the door.

  Margo is standing in the hallway naked. She has gathered her clothes in bunches around her, and her hair is askew.

  Through the heavy makeup, Chris can see a swelling above her right eye.

  “That fucking Yank tosser hit me,” Margo says, still quite excited. As she pulls on her clothes, standing in Chris’s room, she tells Jane how the strike occurred. Apparently, Brad ejaculated just as they started, and Margo laughed. He called her a bitch and she told him to fuck off. Then he hit her, open handed, on the side of her face.

  Without saying goodbye, the two leave. A clothed Brad, minus shoes, steps out into the hallway, shouting so loud that Chris is sure people in the bar can hear.

  “Go to hell, you fucking whore! You were the ugliest piece of ass I ever had in my life!” Brad returns to his room and slams the door shut.

  Chris returns to the bed, still undressed. He closes his eyes as his mind tries to decipher the events of the evening. He isn’t sure if he’s still a virgin anymore. He decides that physically he isn’t, but emotionally he is. He recalls with agonizing disgust the crudeness of the entire evening. Tears well up behind his closed eyes.

  Chris returns to work, still unsure of his technical status among the ranks of virgins or non-virgins, a group that he knows is much larger.

  Ultimately, he decides he is still a complete virgin, though he may have more of a clue about what’s going on the next time he is close to a woman. He had always expected that he would feel different after his virginity ended. He imagined that his whole essence would somehow change, and the change would resonate throughout his whole being. He imagined he would strike others as manlier, more adult, and that his personality would also change. He would feel more confident, more secure, and not like the misfit that he has always pictured himself to be.

  However, as he enters the building to commence a day watch that he is about to begin on very little sleep, he feels no different at all.

  He wants to talk to Karen about it, and get her opinion. He feels somewhat ashamed for sleeping with a prostitute, and maybe wants someone besides his roommate to tell him that it is okay. A thousand rationalizations go through his mind, how prostitution is in the Bible, how it is the oldest profession, and how he’s heard it’s legal in the state of Nevada. It can’t be so bad then.

  But his conscience can’t be reconciled. He feels ashamed, and his self-worth sinks even lower.

  He chooses not to tell Karen, and they talk very little during the two day watches. He is afraid he won’t stop talking if he gets started. He is afraid his tongue will leap from the account of the prostitute to the accounts of his anti-Semitic activity with Father Crowley and Brad, acts for which he also feels various degrees of shame, but he can’t emotionally deal with bein
g friendless. So he remains quiet for the string of day watches, but his mind can’t keep still.

  April 8, 1986

  Dear Wife,

  A lot has been happening so I haven’t written much. There are some things happening that I don’t feel comfortable writing about. They’re not exactly legal, and I’m not exactly proud of them and they’re also too painful to think about more than necessary. Let’s just say it has to do with race. I’ve only been around white people like myself all my life, I didn’t know anyone different before, and there were no black or Jewish kids in my school. White Christians like me, though I have to wonder about the choice of the word Christian. No one I knew ever went to church. The blacks in boot camp made me feel uncomfortable, and I don’t know why. I’ve met someone here, a priest, but not really a priest. He explained to me why I feel uncomfortable around blacks, and it made sense. At first. But he wants to do things to keep the races separate, things that I can’t even imagine.

  When I meet you, I think I will still be a virgin. I have had an opportunity to end my virginity, but I couldn’t do it. That experience is also too painful to mention. If you’re not a virgin when we meet and I still am, that’s okay. I would hope that you haven’t led as boring of a life as me, maybe you’ve enjoyed life enough when the time comes, that you know you will be happy and satisfied with me. More later.

  Love,

  Chris

  Crowley has not seen any sign of the police around his home, so early in the week, at the conclusion of Chris’s day watches, he summons his two young friends to his house.

  He has yet to hear their account of the activities at the George Hotel. The time of their deadline is drawing near. The Jews of Scotland will have to be dealt with, one community, one synagogue, at a time.

  Brad and Chris arrive at his house and don’t speak until spoken to. They have decided previously not to reveal the truth about the events at the George Hotel. They don’t want to disappoint the priest; they want him to feel good about his generosity.

  Brad wants to do it again, and have another chance. Chris wants none of it.

  So they thank him and tell him the night went well. No mention of women being hit, no mention of impotence caused by disgust.

  “Well, then, you truly are men,” replies Crowley. “More men than I am, I must confess, but maybe someday…” His eyes wander as he contemplates his own virginity.

  He pours out a large measure of wine into his silver goblet and returns the bottle to the coffee table. He points to the refrigerator in the kitchen and tells Brad to grab some beers. Brad returns, and Crowley commences his agenda for the evening.

  “Just after Easter, our day of reckoning will come for our enemy. We have to decide how we will proceed, how we will rid them from this country once and for all. I must tell you, it will be a glorious day, because as the Jews leave, so will the Asians, the blacks and any other minority you can think of. The Jews have always blazed a trail for the lesser races, the subservient races. They always drag someone along to do their dirty work and to drive a wedge against the whites. Anyone have suggestions?”

  Chris remains silent. Brad mentions shooting them, one by one, like Lee did in Dundee.

  “That would be fine, but time consuming,” replies Crowley. “We also don’t have a gun, and the Jews have imposed strict gun-control laws in this country. Even the police don’t carry guns. It would be very difficult to acquire a gun here, without having to go through a lot of red tape.”

  Crowley has inquired in the past about obtaining a gun illegally, without the notice of the authorities. As he has gone from shabby pub to shabby pub across this part of Scotland, he has asked, casually, about what it would take to find a gun. Every inquiry is met with indifference; no one he encountered had ever given any thought to buying a gun.

  “No, no. A gun won’t work. Any other ideas?”

  Chris remains silent. Brad mentions pipe bombs, not unlike the ones they used in Glasgow.

  “Well, in order to be effective, we have to have a large number of Jewish people in one place, like in a synagogue, correct?” Crowley asks in response to Brad, but he looks at Chris, to make sure he is interested.

  Chris nods, just to go along with the priest. He can sense where this conversation is heading, and he is quite uneasy. He had hoped all along that they would grow tired of targeting synagogues, and just spend their days drinking and driving around the country in a harmless idyll.

  No, the priest has an agenda and conviction darker than Chris can realize, and Brad’s suggestions of various forms of murder are quite chilling.

  “No, no. It would take several bombs to be effective inside a synagogue. We would have to get them inside, ignite them, and get away without being detected by a large room full of people. Impossible. Any other suggestions?”

  Chris remains silent and motionless. Brad shakes his head after a moment of thought. His well of inspiration has gone dry.

  “Let me offer one idea that I think would be the most plausible. Our gods have given us four elements to command as men. Can anyone take a guess as to what they are?”

  Chris’s mind harkens back to his junior chemistry class. He knows a lot of elements, but still, he remains silent. Brad vigorously shakes his head.

  “Earth, fire, water and air,” Crowley says. “We have command over all four. They are a gift from the gods that have been used since the ancient days when the likes of Thor walked among us.” He is referring to the Norse god of war, a deity he will draw upon often in these final days.

  “I think fire would be the most useful element in our endeavor,” he continues. “We can manufacture it on our own, and it will cost very little. Plus, its power is hard to counter. Let’s think of some ways we can use fire. Suggestions?”

  There is a pause. Chris shakes his head. Brad looks thoughtful and his eyes roll upward as they search his brain for an idea. “Well, I bet if we get a bunch of them inside their church, synagogue or whatever it’s called, and start the inside on fire, we could somehow block their way out. They would go in the fire.”

  Chris shudders. He is amazed that someone can think of setting another person on fire.

  “Excellent, excellent. I think we are on to something here. Brilliant, Mr. Hinckley, brilliant.” Crowley, too, has had the same idea all along, but he wants his two young companions to feel like they’re participants in the whole process.

  The paleness of Chris’s face and his silence disturbs Crowley. He is concerned that a member of his Trinity may be tempted to drop out.

  “Chris, what do you think?”

  Chris answers, too afraid to be singled out for being noncommittal. “Yeah, fire would work, I guess, as well as anything. What exactly are we trying to do, though?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Crowley asks.

  Brad laughs and the priest joins him.

  “Look,” says Crowley, seeing Chris’s obvious squeamishness, “this is a war, and the stakes are high. We have to defend our culture and our race before it is absorbed into the mess of blacks and Jews and god knows what else. Do you want a wife and kids someday?”

  Chris nods.

  “Of course you do, and you want them to grow up in an environment that is safe and free, not under the control of Jewish bankers or media, not in fear of some Negro robbing you or raping your wife or killing your child. That happens all the time, especially in America. It is happening as we speak. It is very important that the blacks that aren’t wiped out be sent back to Africa, and it is very important that the white man’s money be taken from the Jewish banks. They have the real power over us. Our war is an important one indeed, and if you can’t handle it, you had better toughen up or get out of our way.”

  Chris says nothing. He would like to get up and walk away, but he knows Father Crowley won’t allow him to simply leave. There would be some price to pay. A price to pay to a man who is capable of murder, murder without even blinking or the slightest pang of conscience.

  Crowley tak
es Chris’s silence as compliance, and continues his strategizing.

  “I think we should start with the Aberdeen synagogue. Chris, didn’t you say that there were no windows that you could see?”

  Chris nods. “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Excellent. I think that might be the place to start, but I also think it is worth a trip to verify that fact. We will count the windows and the doors and plan accordingly. Let’s go.”

  Crowley grabs his coat and Chris and Brad follow him to his car. The engine whines as he drives the car fast and hard and north.

  Despite the furiousness of his driving, the trip is still nearly half an hour. Chris stares out the window, wondering what he has gotten himself into and wondering how he is going to get out. What would he be doing now, at this moment, if he had opted not to join the service, to stay in Michigan?

  He would be homeless, he decides, his mother having moved, his father indifferent, and his brother constantly stoned or drunk.

  The lights of Aberdeen illuminate their drive through the city center, and they easily find the synagogue. They park in the street right in front of the door, separated only by a narrow swath of sidewalk. The synagogue is housed in an old building on the edge of the center of Aberdeen, surrounded by shops and storefront offices. The building stands alone, barely, with a narrow passage leading to the alley from the sidewalk on either side of the building. There is one window in the front, right by the door, and only one door leading into the alley.

  “Splendid,” says Crowley, while looking up and down the street and the alley, scanning the rooftops, the doorways and other possible places to hide.

  After only a few minutes, Crowley leads them back to the car and they head back to Lutherkirk.

  He details his plan while driving south.

  “This is so simple, it is brilliant.” He grins from ear to ear. “On a day of my choosing, in the not too distant future, we will go to Aberdeen, during a service in the synagogue. Brad and Chris, you will take the front door, and I will take the back. Remember the wine bottles in Glasgow?”